Are you the kind of person who often ponders the immortal question, “WHY ISN’T ANYONE READING MY T-SHIRT!?” Do you reek of filthy bedsheets and household garbage that should have been cleared from the foot of your computer desk months ago? Can you name more actors that played Dr. Who than you can personal friends? If so, ThinkGeek.com is the perfect destination for you and your unruly brood who have no doubt traded sex favors for Magic: The Gathering cards. Bad news: the Black Lotus might have been banned from tournament play, but those emotional scars will last forever.

Through copious amounts of research that basically boiled down to stealing a catalog from someone else’s mailbox, Garbage Duck has taken the liberty of highlighting the worst Christmas gifts from a site that dubiously claims to be for “smart” people. And we’ve posted it as close to the holiday as possible to prevent any more poor souls out there from having their remaining scraps of dignity ripped away through the simple act of opening a cardboard box. Enjoy!

Worst Use of Words on Fabric: The <sarcasm> T-Shirt

There’s no telling how these things are still being made. Did someone recently recover a sunken mall shipment vessel that originally launched from China in 1997? Whatever the case, this brand of geek apparel isn’t unique in its awfulness, but awful in its ubiquity. Who hasn’t dealt with someone whose shirt proudly snarked something their crippling social anxiety and self-loathing would never let them say? Bonus points if this happened before 2002.

Price: $18.99 Loss of Dignity: -10

Worst Use of Bacon: Every Goddamned Thing with Bacon in It

Unfunny people, did you get the memo? Bacon is the new thing you’re supposed to run into the fucking ground! Pirates, robots, and zombies had a good run, and for a while it looked like pimps were going to be the next big thing, but no; this specific pork product is beloved by everyone who lists The Big Bang Theory as one of their favorite shows. Clearly, the possession of bacon-themed items tells the world “I am a down-to-earth individual with a relaxed attitude about a delicious-yet-deadly food item. And if you use my bathroom your hands are going to smell like a godforsaken Denny’s all day and stray dogs might attack you.”

Price(s): Various/Too Much Loss of Dignity: -25

Worst Food-to-Mouth Delivery System: Marshmallow Guns (Various)

Be honest: how many marshmallows do you eat in a year? If you answered “more than one,” then you’ve just committed the socially-permissible act of lying to a blog. This is because marshmallows are a terrible turn-of-the century foodgoo that only serve a useful purpose as a binding agent in candy sandwiches. So why in the name of all things holy would you pay up to and including $34.99 for a device which fires this roofing industry byproduct into your mouth through what can only be described as the world’s most action-packed choking hazard? Even if you’re self-medicating with food, there has to be a better, more efficient way of doing so that doesn’t involve eating marshmallows. Garbage Duck recommends a gravy funnel or perhaps a cake tarp if Christmas ends up giving you a case of the Mondays.

Price: $19.99 – $34.99 Loss of Dignity: – 50

Worst Use of a Valuable Metal: Starfleet Academy Spork Combo

Nothing says “I will soon murder you in my personally built sex dungeon” than handing your guests Star Trek-branded sporks with their delicious pudding cup dinners. I once lived near a used bookstore that contained an entire bookcase shelved with hundreds of Star Trek novels undoubtedly obtained from the estate sales of dead shut-ins; maybe one of these tomes explains just how this KFC-popularized abomination became the standard eating utensil in Gene Roddenberry’s humanist future utopia? Finding out would cost upwards of 25 cents, which would be better spent paying the sales tax on something far more interesting, like shoe polish.

Price: $22.99 per Spork Loss of Dignity: -100

Worst Repurposing of a Snuggie: The Slanket

I’m not quite sure how the Slanket differs from the Snuggie, except the former apparently comes with its own Suicide Girl? So you can enjoy your backwards robe together as you pretend to enjoy The Corpse Bride and later try to score some heroin or something. For some ThinkGeek customers, the slanket will be a comfortable winter retreat soon to be smeared with dust produced from the Frito-Lay company; for others, it will be the most form-fitting garment available on the market. In either case, they’re still paying three times the street value of a fucking Snuggie.

Price: $29.99 Loss of Dignity: – how do i make the infinity symbol on this

"Either this wallpaper goes or I - excuse me. Either this wallpaper goes or the Irish do." - Finneus A. GarbageDuck, dying words.

Since our great-grandfathers founded this blog way back in 1910, GarbageDuck has been all about reaching out to the youth. We’re also all about the money, but that’s hard to come by in the Internet comedy writing business. My Pap-pap came up with the promotional idea of filming pie fights with X-10 spy cameras which he advertised, but those don’t always translate into banner ad clicks, no matter how many people viewed it at the arcade nickelodeons.

His other scheme to monetize the site was through fat, evil government contracts. His idea was to pen anti-Mexicandrug propaganda and circulate it to the impressionable youth through the malt shops of rural Ohio. Imagine our surprise last week when, due to a booking error, we found out one of his grant applications was approved some 60 years ago. So, in Pap’s beloved memory, we set down the piles of Confederate script he – for a good reason, we’re sure – requested in his application and present:

MARIHUANA: BUGGERER OF YOUTH!

In which our impressionable and virginal narrator Billy meets a slicke, smoothe talking drug dealer and smokes drugges to his ruine.

Haw! Haw! Well golly! I had such a good time reading Shakespeare and blacking out all the unchaste parts that I must be late for dinner! Mom will sure as shooting throw a fit if I miss another one of her famous Milk Toast Jamborees. Maybe that gentleman in the pinstripe suit and greasy mustache can tell me what time it is.

Say, sir? Could you tell me what time – Oh my! You’re that 40-year-old man who’s always throwing parties for teenagers at your apartment downtown. How the heck have you been? Sure, I guess I have a minute or two to chat with you, but I’m mighty thirsty. Where do you want to go?

Hey now! Don’t get snippy just because I can’t poison my body. I know a real thrill when I see one. My friends Skip, Jasper, Mordecai and myself have had our share of heck-raising in this ‘burg. Shucks, I’ll never forget Mordecai’s pantomime of Eleanor Roosevelt trying on blue jeans, clodhoppers and a strap-on. Oh Brother! Those weenie roasts we hosted were something out of Satyricon. Hah! I hope we don’t go to Heck for that one! Anyway, Mother only smacked me across the face with the Bible twice after that and I think that was mostly because I wasn’t home by 7:30.

So I’m up for whatever hijinks you can throw at me, sir. If you want to round up three immigrants from the other side of the tracks, label them 1, 2, and 4 and set them loose inside the next Chamber of Commerce meeting, I’m your guy.

But I can’t do soda pop. Mother told me a story about a kid who drank too much soda – he grew hair all over his hands and turned into a Papist. I’m not about to mess with that stuff! It’s horrible for you. Unhealthy.

What’s that? Sure I’d love a cigarette. Like my Dr. Johnson says, “You have to make sure your T-zone doesn’t turn into a lower-case ‘T’, Billy.” Hah! Great guy, Dr. Johnson. He can trace his lineage back to Cotton Mather.

Well, here we go!

Golly…. Golly this cigarette tastes funny.

Goddamn. Goddamn I’m horny! I could fuck an Encyclopedia Britannica right now I feel so fucking horny. Hey! Hey! I have an idea! Let’s take that nifty Packard you bought with your drug dealing money down to the grade school to find ourselves some strange, eh?

No? What are you? Mormon?! Come on, man, I’m BORED.

Screw this kiddie shit, Mister. I know a guy who can get us some sherm. I feel dangerous! I feel like whistling and making off-color comments at a pregnant lady until she miscarries. You know, ALIVE! Like a… Like a communist!

Saaaaay! That’s an idea! Why don’t I call a bunch of my confused young friends over to your place, throw a bundle of this stuff in a fire and talk politics, huh? Stuff about the divide between the rich and poor, about how private property is a lie, about how church is a lie, about how money and the church and the money you give to the church is a lie. That sort of thing, you know?

Say, I think my buddy Weed Farmer Topher would have a blast with this stuff. He just got a summer internship with the State Department. Let’s call him up and start some shit! Hee! Hee! This is gonna be wild!

There was a new car wash in town. A skeleton car wash. It was called “Skeleton Car Wash” because it was a car wash run completely by skeletons.

It was Saturday. I was in the car with my stepmother, and she asked me, quite bluntly, “Would you like to go to the Skeleton Car Wash?” I asked, “You mean, the one run completely by skeletons?” She nodded. The other Skeleton Car Wash was run by the Skeleton family who were not skeletons.

We pulled up to the Skeleton Car Wash, and a skeleton in coveralls walked over to the driver’s-side window. “What’ll it be, ma’am?” My stepmother asked for a normal wash; the skeleton walked over to my window, rapped on it, and stuck the ten dollar bill my stepmother had given him right in his eye socket. It popped out of his mouth and I guess it would be scarier if we hadn’t just shopped at the Skeleton Supermarket (they have a skeleton in the back that works in the deli).

My stepmother drove into the car wash, and the lights went out. It was just like a regular car wash, except you were supposed to tune your radio to a specific frequency and they would play spooky sound effects. Except I guess the skeletons weren’t paying attention because there was just a bunch of jungle sounds.

We pulled out of the Skeleton Car Wash onto the main road. We both felt empty, somehow. Suddenly, my stepmother looked at me and asked, “Wasn’t that car wash supposed to be $8.50?” At that point I realized that my stepmother was a ghost all along, and we didn’t get our change back and things were scary.

I am a C! I am a C-H! I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N! And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T and I will L-I-V-E-E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y!

Hello, brothers and sisters! This is your old friend H.P. Lovecraft and have I got some good news for you!

You may remember from the last time we talked that I was going to kill myself because I was prideful and couldn’t stand the crushing poverty and my loveless marriage any longer. Yep, Ol’ H.P. was feeling pretty low back then.

But it was as I was laying on the floor, lolling in opiate ecstasy, that a realization came to me. I knew suicide was not going to save me. Friends, Jesus came to me in that moment and I was saved! Born again! I knew then what was wrong with my life. I had my wife drag me right out of that wine cellar and into the nearest church and I accepted God into my life. I was baptized right there and Rev. Randolph Carter said I was now a heavily armed member in the Army of God.

I survived my suicide attempt! And I’m here today to tell you that the old yarn about the footprints in the sand is true: “When I saw only one set of tentacle tracks, it was then that He carried me.”

I’m much happier today. I’m using my gifts as a writer to spread the message about our church’s love. Rev. Carter even said how impressed he was with the manifesto I carved in the door of the new Muslim community center in town. How about that?

Unfortunately, before I can continue doing the Lord’s work, there’s some business I have to take care of. Namely, my contract with Scholastic publishing that states I need to turn out another book of Halloween jokes.

Now, I want you to know that I don’t believe in Halloween anymore. I plan on spending Trick Or Treat this year handing out free VHS copies of this inspiring little tune. But a deal is a deal, and Rev. Carter said the royalties I make off the book can go to buying that compound in Montana he’s had his eye on.

Here’s just a few of the jokes you can read this fall in “H.P. Lovecraft’s 101 Hell-oween Punnies.”

Q. What do you get when you take the circumference of your jack-o-lantern and divide it by its diameter?

Booyah!

A.“Gods, Jacobson! Those aren’t mountains at all. It’s a cityscape!” Our plane flew low over the arctic on our mission to witness to the last Un-Christified place on the planet. In the belly of our freight jet, crate after crate of tracts waited, depicting sinners flying from the loving arms of the angels into the pit of fire Jesus prepared for his lousier children. Our plan: dump these over the arctic wilderness and return to the Mississippi Synod for a leisurely afternoon of snake handling.

The expedition to that point had been a success. Jacobson successfully witnessed to several Esqimeaux and I took their head measurements for my seminary senior thesis on phrenology and the holy spirit.

But the dread city (which was probably built by Turks) filled our field of vision. And how can I describe it? It was all wrong! Our laws of geometry apparently did not apply to it’s cyclopean angular madness! Obtuse angles of buildings squatted hideously in ways the human mind could hardly comprehend. Suddenly, we had a feeling that Ezekiel probably had when God (NOT ELDER THINGS!!!!!) took him up into the sky on a chariot of fire and showed him creation. The plane turned this way and that, at one time appearing to be plummeting to the earth, at another flying toward the stars, at still another, time traveling sideways.

With the mad city in our view the physical properties of things changed, with me entering Jacobson’s body and with Jacobson entering mine.

I want to be clear here, we did this merely as a perversion of physics and not as a perversion of the body. Rev . Carter said God has a plan for gays and AIDS is just the beginning.

In our shared horror we prayed to Jesus to save us from the Non-Euclidean Hell that was playing out in front of us. When we looked up again, the dread city was gone. In its place the sun shone beautifully through the clouds. Our Earth’s geometry had returned to its proper place.

A. Let me ask you something, friend: If you died today, do you know where you’d go? Would it be to someplace sunny and warm, with everyone you ever loved and every childhood pet you thought you’d never see again waiting to meet you?

Or would it be an infernally hot place where you are penetrated hourly by a cackling Leslie Nielsen with bat wings?

Eggsorcists.

Q. Why did the Demon eat a whole Shoe store?

A. Ragnar, Glutton of the Wastes, laughed horridly to himself on his throne built of skulls, heavy metal CD’s, Magic the Gathering Cards and textbooks from a public school. His six breasts swayed like pock-marked red moons as he gurgled in fell joy from the bounty he just consumed.

He picked his teeth with a lawyer from the ACLU as he ate sole… after sole… after sole…

___________________

Well, I hope you’re satisfied with that, because I have to go now. With my worldly contractual obligations fulfilled I have to go take care of my spiritual contract. You see, there’s an abortionarium that opened in Providence recently, and you-know-who (it’s Jesus) told me a certain doctor there needs to have his baby-killing soul aborted with the Lovecraft-family blunderbuss.

Hey, all. Chuck Guntly, here. Wish I could be writing this on happier terms, but Obummer’s depression has certainly taken its toll on the Guntly clan. Ever since those GOVERNMENT FATCATS took away my driver’s license for plowing through a VFW during one of my “dizzy spells,” I’ve had to walk three whole blocks just for a simple trip to the liquor store! And walking more than 20 blocks a day… boy, are my dogs barking! See, this is why we need to dismantle oppressive government agencies like the DMV — who are they to decide that a veteran’s time on this earth hasn’t expired? I’m sure that 84 year-old tail gunner is looking down from heaven in gratitude for releasing him from this Orwellian nightmare known as life in America.

It shouldn’t surprise any of you that, as a firm believer in common sense, I’m a proud member of the Tea Party movement. In fact, you might have seen me on CNN; I made sure my anti-Obungle rally sign had the most swastikas (33 at last count). Though I’ve always been proudly seated at the tea table of Rationalism… even back when I was a little spud, Grandpa Guntly would speak proudly of those golden years before a cripple Demoncrat made it so part of my hard-earned disability check had to pay for some preteen’s crack baby… that I don’t even know! He also did this trick where he removed his glass eye and whipped it as hard as he could at my mom’s ass… sigh… Miss you, Gampy.

Oboner's kinda like the guy you invite over who steals all the beer from your kiddie pool and then has sex with your wife while you're busy trying to pull car parts out of the sewer. I'll never forgive you, Rusty.

Anyhow, it looks like Kommisar Obumble and his Captial Hill Cronies have cooked up a new scheme to pay off the national debt– and no, it’s not eliminating that overfunded hydra known as public television. No, Obama’s gonna squeeze our cheeks the hardest: we regular Joes in the middle class. As part of the lower ceiling of this group (I made $13,000 last year, not counting the water cooler reservoir full of pennies I found in that ditch), I’m not looking forward to finally becoming rich, only to see hundreds, if not thousands, thrown into a roaring fire of programs like wheelchair ramp funding and asbestos removal from insane asylums. And in case you were wondering, I’ve decided I’ll start being rich when I’m in my 60s… that should give me plenty of time to work on my fly fishing until mother nature decides it’s time to wash this old salmon downstream. I’ve already arranged for my nephew, Steven, to fish my corpse out of the river when this happens. Thanks a million, Steve-o, and don’t forget to bury me in my Terry Bradshaw jersey.

But who knows if my dream of dying face-down in a pool of murky water will ever become a reality? As the owner of a local business, Obozo’s Marxist class warfare hurts people like me the most. Guntly Copper Corp (GCC) has been a family industry throughout the past five decades, tasking we Guntlies with the dangerous job of removing harmful, valuable metals from abandoned houses that sit like ticking time bombs full of raccoon-infested antique furniture. If business starts picking up like I know it will — there’s a wave of deadly influenza ripping its way through neighborhoods on “the wrong side of the tracks,” if you catch my drift — I might as well slow down productivity, save myself the tax burden, and send my son back into his old line of work: successfully trying to win America’s Funniest Home Videos’ $10,000 prize. The doctor said if that boy falls off another trampoline, he’s going to need a new hip.

So the next time you find yourself in a voting booth, do what my old pal Thomas Paine always says: “Use some common sense.” Tom’s an old buddy of mine down at the gun club, and he’d really appreciate it.

The Bureau Of Land Management: God’s Barren Bounty

“Oh my! Sorry, but I didn’t see you there, children. I’m a Dick In a Tie! I hope you’ve been learning a lot since the last time we talked!

“And I also want to say “Thanks” to all you great kids for filling out your OligarCo Swell Times Birthday Club Cards! All of us here at the ol’ shop are looking forward to celebrating your birthdays this year. And so are our fine pals at your friendly Draft Board, who, we forgot to mention, co-sponsored the Swell Times Birthday Club. Say ‘Hi!’ fellas!”

“See you soon, kids.”

“Anyway! Enough jawing on! It’s time for learning!”

“Siiiiigh….”

“Billy? Is that you, Billy!? Say, Billy, what’s got you down today, huh? Has Jack Kerouac been giving your classmates marihuana cigarettes again? It’s okay, Billy, we can just add that to his special file here…”

“No, it’s not that Mr. Dick, it’s just that – Well, my back yard’s all crumby and I have nowhere to play after school.”

“Well that’s not swell, Billy, but what could be so bad about it? Did your parents park the trailer next to the pet semetery again?!”

“No! Worse! I mean, I live in a pretty bad neighborhood and it’s real dangerous to go outside. Golly! Just look at it!”

“Cripes! Yikes! I like Ikes! Billy! That’s terrible! But I’ll tell you what let’s do: why don’t we let you play in America’s backyard today? Why don’t we visit the Bureau of Land Management!”

“You mean? You mean you’re taking me out to all of that barren wasteland in the desert the government doesn’t know what to do with? where all those missing cartel members were unearthed last year?! Swell!”

“That’s right, Billy! Follow me!” *PWISH!*

“This is it, the moon!”

“That’s no moon, Billy, that’s millions and millions of acres of New Mexico’s own freedom country – BLM Land!

“You see, The Bureau of Land Management, or the BLM, is responsible for taking care of literally MILLIONS of acres of land out west. The socialists back in Washtington, saw fit to give them a budget to do things like ‘patrol’ and make sure it ‘doesn’t catch on fire’ or become ‘infested with mutants’ but the spending on these lands amounts to a pittance, just pennies an acre. Its pitiful budget and its remote, hellish landscape make it the perfect utopia for freedom-loving Americans! And poisonous insects. Lots and lots of poisonous insects…”

“But what would anyone want to *do* out there?”

*Hoonnnk! Hooooonk!*

“What was that?”

“That schoolbus full of white guys? That’s the annual Ayn Rand fanclub outing to BLM land. They’re going out here to celebrate her body of work by not paying taxes and raping children.”

“Golly! It seems like anything can happen out here!”

“That’s right, Billy, and most of what does go on out here can fill an AM radio conspiracy talk show for the next decade!

“You see, in the 1940s most of the state of New Mexico was like a giant petri dish for the federal goverment. New Mexico was the dumping grounds for all kinds of Cold War weapons programs. What, from nuclear bombs, to wasps that were made out of electricity to a fog that turns people gay – the BLM lands are literally teeming with the horrible failed experimentations of the military industrial complex.”

*clankclankclank*

“What was that?”

“That’s an example of what I was just talking about! Snugglebot! Let’s see what he’s up to.

“Snugglebot, what is your primary directive?”

*TO SNUGGLE!*

“That’s precious!”

“Eh, I wouldn’t get too close there. Snugglebot was actually designed to be airdropped into Russian villages and Snuggle all the children he saw.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Snugglebot, what is your primary subroutine?”

*cancercancercancercancercancercancercancer* Zzzzt!

“Best steer clear of that needle, Billy!”

“Yeesh, that was close!”

“No kidding, Billy! Yep, the government thought Snugglebot was actually a little too grim to unveil during an election year, so they scrapped the program. But thanks to the Bureau of Land Management he has literally the rest of his nuclear-powered battery life to fulfill his secondary directive – picking up all of the rocks on the eastern side of the BLM lands and making them a mirror image of the western side!”

*Clang! Clang! Clang!*

“Mister, Snugglebot’s trying to stick himself with the needle!”

“Let’s move on, Billy! How are you enjoying yourself so far?”

“Why is my hair falling out, Mister?”

“Oh! Psssh! That! I forgot to tell you. The deserts of New Mexico are a literal goldmine for naturally-occurring radioactive alloys! Neat, huh? We’re at the fun part of the trip now, Billy! Here, take, this official OligarCo Swell Times pickaxe and – Oh!- there are your new friends now. Have fun, Billy, I’m going to hop in this Jeep so I can catch my tee time with Richard Nixon and some of his Bohemian Grove buddies. Remember, the last one to mutate wins an official OligarCo model rocket set! Fill up those mine carts, kids! Have fun!”

“I know, Gary. It’s just that- It’s getting darker earlier this time of year and-”

“Yesss?”

“And cub scout troops aren’t coming by as often as they used to.”

“Nevermind. Throw another Webelos kerchief in the fire. I feel a story coming on.”

WHOOOOSH!

“Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story: THE TALE OF THE GO-GURT BRAINED BROAD WHO MADE US ALL STARVE TO DEATH BEFORE NICKELODEON HAD THE CHANCE TO COME BACK AND TAKE US HOME!”

“Don’t talk like that, Gary! Look… I know it’s been six winters now. I know that! But I just know they’re coming back for us! Any day now, we’ll see those bright orange vans driving through all the miles and miles of the Pine Barrens… They’ll be coming for us, Gary. And there will be Mark Summers, and that rat faced kid from the camp show, and a guy in a foam Stimpy costume. And they’ll tell us, ‘We haven’t forgotten about you, Betty Ann and Gary! Come sleep in here, away from all the raccoons and the ticks!”

“Do you still love me, Betty Ann?”

“Gary, you know I do.”

“You don’t mind that I had that fling with Kiki?”

“Gary, we finished the last of her ages ago.”

“Do you think the cops will suspect anything when they come and find us?”

“What? That Tucker, Kiki and Sam have been replaced with boards of wood with their names written on them in brown crayon? Absolutely not! Oh hey! And speaking of being sneaky, what was that thing you were drawing in your Trapper Keeper earlier?”

“Heh. Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Come on! Show me! I’ll throw another merit badge in with your gruel tonight if you show me!”

“Haha. Okay. Here.”

“Ooh! He’s cute. What’s his name? Um. Cigar Man?”

“No! He’s Heat Man! He can control heat! He’s wearing a special suit that protects his body from reaching a violent equilibrium with the Earth’s atmosphere! Those dots are rivets so his enemies can’t knock it off!”

“Cute!”

“They’re never coming back for us, are they?”

“Stop being such a downer, Gary. Would you feel better if I told a story?”

“No.”

“Come on! Boil up a pine cone and relax for once. Ready? Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story: THE TALE OF THE TIME NO ONE TOOK SARDO’S MAGIC SHOP SERIOUSLY AND HE SOLD A KID SOMETHING THAT ENDED UP KILLING THEM!”

“What kind of thing? Cursed comic book? Wind up teeth? Entropy cube?”

“Um. Entropy cube.”

“Heard it.”

“Would you like to tell one?”

“Absolutely. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society…..

….. “And as I looked into the thing’s bloated, hamburger-like face hovering inches over my baby brother, I wondered ‘What if dying made you go insane?’ Insane enough to sneak into a crib every night, to a boy too young to talk, whose screams will never be understood as ‘Man! Man in my room!?’ So insane that your crackling face twists in something like glee as the boy starts to scream and you bite down and bite down and bite down and bite…”

“I think that’s enough story time for tonight, Gary.”

“Are you sure!? I-I have others! I thought of one about a kid who gets taken away by special garbage men his parents called or or! this other awesome one about a funeral portrait that whispers ‘Help me. I’m in Hell…‘ whenever the lights are turned off!”

“I have an idea, Gary.”

“What’s that?”

“Truth or Dare?”

“Um. Truth?”

“Isn’t it true that you threw a little diva fit when you heard the show was getting canceled?”

“I uh.”

“Or that you went all Lord of the Flies on the production company, stranding us all out here until necessity made us do unspeakable things to one another? To Frank? To Kiki? TO ME?! ”

“No, Betty Ann! No! That’s not true!”

“And that you’re sitting by yourself right now, in a scout kerchief loincloth babbling to yourself ….”

“No!”

“You don’t even have a fucking campfire anymore! You’re using one of those peripherals they sell to light up your Game Boy in the dark!”

“You lie! I’m the leader of this club and I’ve had…”

“Truth or Dare, Gary.”

“… dare…”

“Cut your tongue out.”

“W-what?”

“Cut. Your. Tongue! Out!”

“I’m so sorry, Betty Ann. I’m sorry for everything… Betty Ann, do you still love me?”